


Manisfestation of the Soul

by GeneralizedGenerosity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Harry Potter, Canonical Character Death, Character Bashing, Character Death, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Good Severus Snape, Good Slytherins, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Master of Death Harry Potter, Minor Character Death, Slytherin Politics, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28010748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeneralizedGenerosity/pseuds/GeneralizedGenerosity
Summary: man·i·fes·ta·tion/ manəfəˈstāSH(ə)n , ˌmanəˌfesˈtāSH(ə)n /noun: manifestation; plural noun: manifestations↳ an event, action, or object that clearly shows or embodies something, especially a theory or an abstract idea.Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Die just to live again apparently, had wondered after meeting the deceased Headmaster Dumbledore, what it was he had meant by Death being, "The next Great Adventure."Needless to say, he doesn't wonder anymore. After all, he was the Master of Death. . . Sort of.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Lily Evans Potter/Severus Snape (One-Sided), Undecided
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	Manisfestation of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction, as well as my first story in a long while; shaking off the rust, so to speak!  
> it was quite the long chapter, but I felt it necessary to cut it before it got to 4k, or heaven forbid, 5k LOL  
> I'm hoping to get the next chapter written and read over by Monday at the latest, and after that set up a schedule of Mondays and Thursday updating, so two updates per week!
> 
> P.S I have not written the plot down beyond the meaning of the title, which will become clearer later on (hopefully *crosses fingers*) and the beginning "hook line" of this prologue, because I desperately want this story to flow naturally and not be bound by, "Oh... I can't do this, because I set this scene later on like this and adding this one specific thing could potentially ruin it..." Of course, this is going to create problems, but I'm hoping that posting the chapters as they're written will influence this story just as I hope that it will eventually feel as if it is alive and near writing itself! :D
> 
> stay safe, enjoy, and leave some critique!
> 
> P.P.S i have no clue how to format things properly, im so sorry if it messes up lmfao

It wasn’t like Harry didn’t know what he was getting into, he was aware of the consequences, he rather thought he was mature about it, really. After all, Harry thought as he quietly walked through the corridors of Hogwarts with his cloak of invisibility, mind set on the special, golden hourglass he knew to be hidden behind Dumbledore’s portrait, _it wasn’t like this was the first time he’s gone back in time._

**﹤⳾ ⳾ ⳾﹡⊹﹡⳾ ⳾ ⳾ ⳾﹥**

Harry blinked, his breathing strained as he fought against the pain, eyes tearing up in the blackness of his cupboard. He had done it. _He really did it_. He had managed to get back before he had even gotten into Hogwarts, although not far enough to avoid the beating from the letter fiasco, apparently. Oh well, he thought, feeling a grin spread warily on his face as the throbbing of his body died down somewhat, it’s far enough. 

He waited like that, only the sound of his breaths and the ominous creaking of the Dursley house, until the line of daylight Harry loved to watch appeared and spread into the cupboard from the small gap between the door and the ground, like liquid gold as the sun rose and shone through the windows, slipping, and melting into place through the crack to greet the little boy with too bright emerald eyes, and Harry sighed into its embrace.

This. He missed this. Sure, the cupboard was small, and Harry had grown far too large to be realistically able to live in it -- not that the Dursleys particularly cared -- but God, he missed the ability to just lay down and breathe in the smell of old wood and papers and crayon, feel the waxy drawings with his fingertips, knowing exactly what was drawn and shuddering in a breath as he let his eyes close against the shimmering sunlight streaming in, the images of what he saw of a family and imagining it for himself. Tracing the crayon, Harry knew it was almost accurate to what his parents really looked like. He felt like laughing, really. Kids were scary, sometimes, knowing too much. A breathy laugh escaped, along with a hitch as his ribs protested -- Harry truly knew too much when he was young, so he could definitely confirm that.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps and creaking mattresses sounded through the house, and Harry winced, thinking, ‘I missed everything, but this.’ 

And, as he thought, Aunt Petunia came and unlocked the door harshly, jangling the key in the lock, before whisper-yelling like a hissing cat, “Get up and start breakfast, _freak_.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.” Harry replied dutifully, crawling forward and inwardly smiling at how the pain was near almost gone, thanking his magic silently. Petunia made a disgusted grunt, before going on her way and back up the stairs, most likely to wake Dudley, leaving Harry by himself and his short-self to grab the pots and pans, the stool, and whatever he needed from the refrigerator, and freezer respectively, to make breakfast.

This, Harry sighed wistfully, was also something he found he enjoyed the more he did it. Cooking was a release he never really recognized until he got older. It was methodical, yet there was room to experiment, and sure there were recipes, but you could also veer a little off course and come out better than what the end result could have been, and no one except him was none the wiser about it.

Musing about his old feelings about cooking, Harry absent-mindedly cooked eggs and bacon, toasting some bread then buttering them, plating everything on the table, and was halfway into a seat before he jolted back, berating himself for his near-slip as the Dursleys thumped down the stairs. A second too late, and they would’ve seen him from the bottom of the stairs, seating himself at their table. Harry felt his lips twitch at how much healthier his cousin seemed to be, compared to later years, and almost felt sad about how Dudley ended up. He was ushered “nicely” by Uncle Vernon to go and take care of his new list of chores -- a list written in Aunt Petunia’s fancy chicken scratch clipped to the fridge -- while they finished, because -- wait

“What?” Harry blurted out, much to the consternation of Vernon and Petunia, while Dudley didn’t seem to care while he stuffed his face with awful chewing sounds.

“You heard me, boy,” Vernon huffed, “We’re going on vacation, while you control your freakish self and take care of the house.”

Harry blinked. This felt awfully strange, seeing as Uncle Vernon had never trusted him before, but soon began to understand as Vernon continued, “Meaning, of course, you will not,” at this he seemed to growl, and although it wasn’t necessarily aimed at him, Harry still flinched under the tone, “Be going and spreading that freakishness around with other freaks.”

It was a scene from an awful movie, really. A young child of 11 years old, accepted for a very prestigious school indeed, turned down because the parents, or rather guardians in this instance -- didn’t like him. Harry, however, knew what would happen, and was very, very excited to see what would happen this time. After all, for the hundredth or so go of trying to fix things, nothing had ever changed! This, Harry thought, was exciting! 

On the inside, Harry was practically beside himself with how happy he was, because it worked! It really worked! The outside, however, portrayed a very distraught child, and he tearily agreed to Uncle Vernon, who only growled at him and turned back to his family, and got to work on the garden, nearly laughing when he saw a garter snake, an orange pattern he noted dully, and surprised it by saying hello.

“ _A speaker?_ ” It hissed, “ _Where did you come from, Speaker, for I have been here before and yet no Speaker was._ ”

A laugh passed his lips, if only slightly, the sound strangled at how _formal_ sounding this snake was, he’d almost describe a posh Englishman, and couldn’t help himself in replying, “ _I live here, though I do not come out frequently._ ”

The snake hissed incoherently, sort of like humming for a human, “ _Yes, that is why I have not laid eyes on you, I would recognize a Speaker anywhere._ ”

Abandoning his work for now, Harry talked with the snake more, learning many interesting, albeit not particularly useful, things; the snake's name, for example, was Gliding Through Water, which was given to him when he attempted to traverse a pond and succeeded without trouble after another snake had tried and was killed, which, well, is morbid, but interesting. 

Harry managed to convince the snake to allow him to call him Clyde, and he was pretty sure the only reason the snake accepted was the sense of honor they seemed to have about Speakers. Which, when Harry thought about Nagini and the Basilisk, he sort of understood. 

Something else that Harry found especially interesting was Clyde’s names for certain objects, such as lawn mowers, or rather Ones That Eat Grass, or even sprinklers, Reversed Sky Water. That last one was particularly fun to decipher, although Harry found that Clyde himself was not as amused and was much more frustrated than anything, deciding then and there that human tongue isn’t worth learning, for how stupid the names were. Harry couldn’t help but agree, thinking of all the dumb names things were called today, Muggle and Wizard a-like.

“What on _Earth_ are you _doing?!_ ” Petunia snarled and for an instant Harry had a flash of a pan hitting his head when he failed to make breakfast one day, and flinched hard away from the snake, who had quieted immediately.

Petunia walked the short distance from the door to the flower beds and harshly grabbed him by the collar of the too baggy shirt and spun him around, choking him slightly, waving a hand at what little he had done, “I thought we told you to do your _chores_ , _freak_ , not lay about!”

Harry was almost impressed that she was being so aggressive outside, but it was tempered by the fact that she was practically breathing it into his ear, and not screaming at it like Vernon would’ve done, “I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia.”

“You better be.” Was all she said in return, turning a disdainful eye from her flowers to his face, “We’re leaving early. You know what happens if our standards aren’t met.” She let go of his shirt collar, walking away primly without looking back. Harry stood there, waiting until the sound of a car turning on and driving away disappeared, rubbing his slightly tender neck, looking back for Clyde, only to find the snake had left with a dejected sigh.

Slightly disappointed, Harry decided that he should at least take care of the plants; it’s not their fault their owner isn’t a good person, after all. It was tedious work, and the day had only just begun, and he only managed to finish just before noon, although he had also done the front and backyard. 

Deciding that it was definitely time for a good break, instead of just drinking water occasionally, Harry went inside, bringing the cup that he used with him, and refilled his cup with water. 

He. . . Wasn’t sure what to do, even after going through time about a hundred times.

Harry didn’t have any hobbies. He drew, yes, sung, and even played a few instruments, but he always did it for a reason. You could, for example, bring a drawing to life if infused with enough willpower, intent, and magic. You can transfigure your wand into an instrument and use songs instead of spells, relying solely on intent, or even use your own voice as an amplifier. It was all for something, never just because. 

Sighing, he sat on the uncomfortable couch in front of the television, entirely unused to the box-like electronic, and fiddled around with the remote before settling on just watching some random movie, which Harry just could not get into. Something about going through poorly designed trials in search of some sort of ancient artifact.

“Boring,” he sang under his breath, wishing he had something he could do.

Oh, wait. 

Getting off the couch and not even bothering to turn off the T.V. Harry scrunched his face at the clothing he was wearing -- baggy, unflattering, and entirely noticeable stains -- before shrugging and doing what little wandless magic he knew about it; a sizing charm to make it fit better, a cleaning charm to try and sort out the stains ( _not that it did more than make them fade slightly_ ), and a charm to make sure it didn’t tear. Shrugging, Harry slipped into his old sneakers, casting a quick repair charm on his glasses, satisfied that they no longer needed the tape, before heading out, smiling a little to himself as he left the front door unlocked, and began his trek to a specific pub.

**﹤⳾ ⳾ ⳾﹡⊹﹡⳾ ⳾ ⳾ ⳾﹥**

It was almost disturbingly easy to get into Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron as a small child, all alone. Harry had walked up to Tom, head lowered so his hair fell over his scar, and looked up through eyelashes with as nervous a face as he could muster, politely asking if he could open the way to Diagon Alley for him, and Tom, in all his smiles and niceness, showed him the way to open it and then let him through, waving Harry off as he thanked him, saying, “Jus’ stay out of the dark alleys, lad.”

Harry stuck to the crowds, lives upon lives of experience giving him the ability to expertly weave and entangle himself within them, near impossible to see due to how short he was, which, Harry realized belatedly, he should probably fix before doing anything strenuous. The last time he didn't fix it early on, he was told he had permanently stunted growth and was not allowed to participate in the more grueling tasks in class, as it had also stunted his magical core, and was especially worse as he had decided to become a Hufflepuff; the fact immense bullying happened after came as no surprise. Harry could smile back on it though, because despite how it had ended -- which he refused to even remember willingly -- it had been the first time in his many lives where him and Severus Snape, the Greasy Git of the Dungeons, or his favorite title, Grungy Dungeon Bat, had had had a fairly nice relationship. 

Turns out, being bullied so severely without help, especially from the Headmaster who had favored him beforehand, tugged at his own personal experiences. After that, Harry had always made a point to be extremely polite to Snape in his after-lives, although he still refused to take the verbal beatings lying down, which Severus himself admitted was what he should do and should always call him out on it in the first life he had confronted him on it.

Walking amongst the stores, Harry reminisced fondly on all his friends, on all the houses and little badgers, ravens, snakes and lion cubs so fiercely determined to be the best, to know the most, to have the biggest group, to be _good_ . He remembers the professors, the good and the bad ones, the _terrible_ ones, and of course, Light Lord himself, Albus Dumbledore. 

Harry was stalling.

He had been standing near one of the more common entrances to Knockturn Alley, peering in every so often. 

Harry needed to enter, get it over with already, he _understood_ , but there was still the one life where he had been turned into a vampire after becoming too comfortable with this equivalent of a muggle black market, which more fool him, really, but even then, having spent over 200 years stuck inside the body of a pre-pubescent. . . Needless to say, he didn’t want to be stuck as a child vampire. There’s a reason they’re considered disgusting within the vampire community.

Grimacing, he walked down the slowly widening alley, keeping an ear out for the telltale sound of a vampire (they tended to smile a little too wide and cause their fangs to clack against their teeth). Adults leered at him openly, a few even making crude comments, some even going so far as to try and touch him, grinning with too much teeth and too bright eyes.

Harry merely sneered at them and kept walking, making his magic gather in his eyes, and smiled grimly as the adults paled and backed off without a word. Glowing eyes, after all, were considered the mark of a very powerful or a _very_ angry wizard. 

Both, Harry laughed softly, without letting his magic exit his eyes properly and casting an eerie green tone to build up in his eyes and reveling in the frightened expression of anyone who looked at him after, were equally dangerous.

**﹤⳾ ⳾ ⳾﹡⊹﹡⳾ ⳾ ⳾ ⳾﹥**

It took less time than he thought to get a wand from Talia, an old woman with many wrinkles, long, wavy greying hair, completely white eyes and a hard grip despite her near-skeletal hands.

She had smiled, teeth just as sharp as he remembered, and Harry had smiled back just the same; too many teeth, no trace of politeness, and watched fondly as the woman immediately laughed heartily and handed him a wand, voice eerily vacant after the soulful laugh, “This is what you’re looking for, now go.”

Harry simply dropped the same amount he had paid every life for the gorgeous, polished black marble wand with silver accents, ‘like empty veins in burnt skin’, a description lovingly given by Death, and the core was fused to the marble with his blood, which was tainted with basilisk venom and phoenix tears no matter when he goes back, as well as the dragon hide of a baby Horntail, which Harry knew was dead before the hide and other parts had been scavenged, if only because he had demanded Talia, the first time he had been given the wand, make sure that his wand was as legal as it could be.

Talia, the old coot, had laughed and laughed, before doubling the price and then tripling it when Harry wasn’t satisfied with what he was told.

He was still fond of that first experience, because ever since he’s been unforgivingly reminded that Talia Denner is, in fact, a Seer of great skill and incredibly favoured, and she absolutely refuses to let him forget that she knows him despite all the time ripping. 

Shaking his head with a small smile, Harry walked to the next store he needed; specifically, an illegal potions shop, bought the dragonhide gloves he knew were hidden behind the more expensive cauldrons, the custom cauldron that was secretly advertised specifically for experimental brews, as it was crafted specifically to be able to be transfigured into another cauldron, for example pure iron, without the magic interfering in the actual brewing, as magic is wont to do.

Both were costly, but not as costly as getting the ingredients he needed, most of which would be imported and delivered just in time to brew the potion he needed to help reverse his malnutrition and aid in gaining back the growth he had missed out on, and Harry smiled politely at the fully masked man behind the counter, who only spoke the total price and nodded politely when you left. He had never personally seen behind the mask Darrius wore, but knew vaguely that it had been melted beyond recognition due to an experimental potion years ago that had him tossed out without so much as recompensation for his damaged equipment by the man who had commission him to brew it, and subsequently was ostracized for his failure by most Potion Masters.

Remembering things like this, Harry decided, was distracting. He knew so many people, and was very, very glad and literally _blessed_ to be able to sort through it all without going mad. Having to literally shake his head to clear it, Harry walked out with a quiet goodbye, shrinking what could be shrunk and packing everything else all the way out of Knockturn, passing a small glance at Madam Malkin’s Robes, before deciding upon the slightly decrepit shop hidden slightly behind it, proudly displaying the crooked letters of Mr. Xeron’s Custom Customizable Creations. He very much needed a trunk, after all, and he definitely wasn’t settling for Britain’s Trunk Imports.

Walking in, after having to navigate through the slowly thinning crowd to the other side of the large street, Harry smiled at it being _different_. He had only come into this shop in his last life, having thought the Ministry had only sanctioned one store of trunks for students. The first and only time he was happy about being wrong about the Ministry. Harry gave a polite greeting to the teen behind the register who was more than happy to ignore him as he walked around, looking at wardrobes that would act like apparition, if only minor and only to another room in it’s specific wards, doors that could be tied to the owner of the room’s intent and mood to keep things, people or even a certain smell out, as well as many other knick knacks until he came upon the very small section of trunks, all stacked one on top of another, and couldn’t help the fondness as Harry spotted a trunk that had served him incredibly well, before Sirius, in a fit of Slytherin prejudice, had burned it with Fiendfyre, after Snape had -- Wincing, he tore his eyes away from the beautiful hide-stitched piece, and decided on the one above it on a shelf; it was smaller than the recommended trunk diameters, but Harry knew Mr. Xeron had an obsession, or rather wizards in general really, of smaller objects being bigger on the inside. 

It was a beautiful wood, white, maybe Yew? Harry didn’t really remember his wandlore very well, and has more than forgotten what the wand Ollivander had given him, save for the feather from Fawkes. It wasn’t truly his wand, he had found, and had refused to even touch it after learning of who would’ve wielded it.

Nodding his head to himself, if only mentally, Harry grabbed it, and, despite the protests from the cashier who said it was _much_ too expensive to buy for a kid like him, paid and left.

Harry was determined in this life, to become the best he could be, to bring attention to himself and only shun the more. . . Unfortunate attention.

In essence, _and Harry was also determined to not think too hard on this_ , he had to become a better Slughorn.

Yuck.


End file.
